Why Must We Work So Much, And Why Does it Suck So Hard?

I'm tired, old and haggard.


I'm trying vainly to get an anthology of short stories ready in time for that most merry of the greedy corporate holidays - Christmas (or, Get Out There and Accrue More Credit Card Debt Day). However, I have to work, like, all the fucking time, and this makes getting such things done almost impossible. My job is just some mindless bullshit in a bullshit-ass-fucking factory that makes stuff that goes into other stuff that people buy and drive around in (there, vague enough? Don't you stalk me, weirdo). I deal with the garbage and recyclables that is created during this mindless process. It's a boring, soul-crushing job that is enacted in a dull, hostile environment. And if it weren't for the fact that I''m an unknown, losery self-pub bitch, I could be at home threshing out this god-forsaken anthology - instead of squishing recyclables and garbage into noxious, unmanageable cubes of gigantic size.

Shoot me. No, don't. Shoot at me?

Speaking of mortality, today's my birthday, yo! I want you all to download this book and read that shit, then post an honest review somewhere, even on the walls of a bathroom stall in a truck stop known for gay activity will do. Do it, you bastards, it's my birthday.

So, you want a story? On MY birthday, I gotta tell you a story? Assholes ... aha, just kidding, you're my friends and I love ya. Here's one you might not hate (NOTE: I'm gonna just post links to other places on the Net where the stories are posted from now on, at least until my girlfriend gets around to snazzing up my shit-tastic blog. Can't format this motherfucker to save my life!)

She's Yours


P.S. Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American friends, peers and fans!

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